


what you know is true

by remmyme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel has a lot to learn, Dean is not subtle, Fluff and Angst, Laundry, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Slice of Life, Suit of Cups, Tarot: A DeanCas Anthology (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/pseuds/remmyme
Summary: “C’mon, Cas,” Dean says, steering Castiel away and ignoring completely Sam’s offended, pouting huff of breath. “I’m gonna teach you a little somethin’ somethin’.”Dean and Cas, and laundry through the years.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 192





	what you know is true

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from INXS's ['Never Tear Us Apart'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIBv2GEnXlc)
> 
> HELLO PEOPLE. 
> 
> Wow I can't believe the SPN series finale was 15 minutes long and it was amazing!! Miracle pups and long runs on the beach and laundry and a whole life of the mundane!! Fantastic, A++ 100% the reward our boys deserve 💖 
> 
> In honor of 15 years of SPN (and FINALLY getting a long-awaited glimpse of the MoL laundry room), I would like to present:
> 
> A story written in the summer of 2018 for the DeanCas anthology 'Tarot', which was a beautiful publication chock full of extremely talented authors, to which it was one of my greatest honors to have been included. I hope you enjoy it!

“No way.”

“Yes.”

“No _way._ ”

“Yes,” Castiel says. He pauses, wondering where exactly he is being unclear. “…way.” 

“You _met_ Cleopatra. _The_ Cleopatra,” Sam says, pure incredulity.

“Yes,” Castiel repeats a third time. “There were many angels stationed on Earth in the years leading up to the birth of the Son. The _imperium maius_ of the Second Triumvirate were some of the most highly influential and public figures of the time, allies included.” 

“Dude,” says Sam. He leans in from his seat, and his chair — cheap, sun-brittle and one of many lining the wall — creaks and cracks under the man’s considerable weight. Sam seems unconcerned, and Castiel pushes down his sudden alarm. “Was it true she had her brother assassinated so that her son by Caesar could take the Ptolemaic throne?” Sam asks, bright-eyed and eager. “No, wait, did she really kill herself with a poisoned hair comb? No, _wait_ , did Mark Antony really—” 

“Sam!” Dean barks, suddenly appearing at Castiel’s shoulder and cutting Sam’s barrage of questions to an abrupt halt. “Quit harassing the angel. You’re gonna nerd him up more than he already is.”

Castiel is unsure if he feels more grateful or insulted. Unfortunately, with Dean, this is not an uncommon occurrence.

Castiel sways slightly under Dean’s hand, now roughly clasped to his shoulder. Letting himself be moved, yes, but Castiel discovered early on that the hunter would sooner cause himself harm than learn to curb these strange, sharp and insistent touches. “C’mon, Cas,” he says, steering Castiel away and ignoring completely Sam’s offended, pouting huff of breath. “I’m gonna teach you a little somethin’ somethin’.” 

They stop before a long, crowded line of boxy white machines. A number of them rattle and clunk in a collective racket, though the ones they stand in front of are quiet and still. Atop one sits a single basket, borrowed from the establishment and piled high with various clothes and cleaning rags. To Castiel’s keen senses the basket emits a smell all too recently familiar: sweat and blood, dirt and oil and well-use. 

When, earlier in the evening, Dean had disrupted the lazy quiet the three had established in the brothers’ motel room with a sharp clap and a loudly declared, “Laundry time, Sammy!” the younger Winchester had released a drawn, miserable groan, looking quite put-out at the prospect. Castiel hadn’t understood at the time, but is beginning to believe Sam may have had the right of it.

“Watch and learn,” says Dean, opening the lid of a machine and giving it a look inside. “Maybe next time you take a break from looking for God, you ‘n me can run the job solo.”

“…The job.” Castiel leans closer to also squint into the depths of the device, but sees nothing more than an empty tub-like space. “You are aware that I could…” he pauses, turning his eyes to the basket, “‘zap’ them clean, if you’d prefer.” 

Dean’s nose scrunches in marked disapproval. “That ain’t right,” he says. “God invented soap for a reason, buddy.”

Castiel feels his own brow draw on a frown, though his intent to correct Dean’s extremely flawed understanding of the Sumerian origins of _savon ghar_ is promptly derailed by a hand at his sleeve. With a grip at the cuff of Castiel’s coat, Dean lifts, extends, and turns the arm of his vessel all in one deft move. He places something in Castiel’s hand, now raised palm out, the hunter’s intention revealed. His fingers curl to press briefly into Castiel’s skin, calloused and warm. 

Dean’s hand drops away to reveal a number of slightly crumpled bills. Castiel’s eyes slowly lift from the paper money to meet Dean’s own, and then Dean is laughing, laughing like he hasn’t since Famine, soul blooming bright and fond and Castiel doesn't know why. He wants to know why.

The question must show, and Dean says, “Your fuckin’ face,” softening to snickers, like that’s somehow explanation enough. “Look, it’s— It’s really not that complicated, swear. You just—” and Dean points, up and over Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel turns to see a pair of black machines, dispensers of sorts, tucked in along the wall and next to the snack and drink vending machines. “We need quarters. Take that,” Dean nods to Castiel’s hand, still stiffly extended between them, “and feed it to one’a those,” back to the machines, “and then we’re in business. On to phase two.” Dean's focus rounds back to Castiel, a teasing glint lighting his verdant eyes. “Got it?”

Castiel nods, curious enough on the promised ‘phase two’ to overlook the slight irritant of Dean’s playful condescension. He’s unsure what, exactly, is putting Dean in such a mood, but Castiel is…pleased, he believes, for the reprieve. The past few months have weighed heavy on them all.

“Get me some cheesy poofs!” Dean calls to Castiel’s retreating back.

“Can I get a pepsi?” Sam adds, from across the room.

Castiel simply smiles. 

\--- 

There is a buzz, and Emmanuel knows he has again lost time to the silence. His focus returns with the noisy disruption and he becomes aware that he has not moved — perhaps not even to breathe — for the past twenty-seven minutes and twelve seconds.

He has had no healings today, an unusual break in schedule as his name and rumored miracles spread farther by the day, and Daphne is currently out of the house, her own work and social obligations to attend to.

Emmanuel, in his free time, has taken on the chore of laundry. He opens the lid of the washer and indeed, the first wash cycle is complete, had passed in what seemed the blink of an eye. 

He understands that much of what — who — he is is considered unusual. Impossible, even. That most people don’t lose long hours of the day if they’re not paying attention, or possess the ability to instantly right a body’s wrongs. Most do not view eating and sleeping as an unpleasant obligation borne of expectation rather than necessity. 

He understands that others don’t…feel the things he feels. Emotion without cause, the pull, the _pain_ ; the dizzying, drunken, unceasing ache of need and loss and _why, why, please, Ca—_

Emmanuel sharply shakes his head, an attempt to dispel his rising unease. He returns to the task at hand, entering into the motions of changing out the damp load. 

_Listen up, this is important._

Transfer from washer to dryer,

_Darks separate from lights._

empty in the new clothes,

_Don't wanna load it down on just one side._

a measure of detergent,

_Keep a box of powder in the car._

a turn of the dials,

_Always tumble dry low, man, shit wears out fast enough as it is._

and done, time again to wait. Emmanuel lays his hands lightly to the top of the washer, the running machine only partially to blame for the tremble of his fingers. The strange thoughts disperse as mist, gone as if they'd never occurred.

 _I miss him,_ he thinks, with no understanding of who or why.

The echo answers, many miles away.

\--- 

The next time Castiel intends to do laundry, he doesn't end up washing anything at all. 

The need to be practical prevails over sentimentality, and he instead spends his quarters on a vending machine dinner and exits the laundromat in a new outfit entirely. Castiel is not proud to have resorted to stealing, but then again — as Dean would say — pride is currently a luxury he can’t afford. The cheap, overly-processed food settles heavy in his stomach, unfamiliar, but the water he’d procured tastes like the ambrosia of old, soothing a demand Castiel hadn’t fully realized. In future, he’ll have to be more careful in listening to his body’s needs.

The thin hoodie and t-shirt he now wears prove poor protection against the bite of the cool night air, and Castiel takes a moment to mourn the loss of his suit and coat, left behind, torn and bloody and entirely too recognizable. He recalls Dean’s words during their call earlier in the day, warning him against the fallen angels and imploring him to stay safe, lie low and make his way to the bunker as quickly as possible. The hunter’s voice had been fuzzy over the old payphone line, distressingly thin. He’d sounded rough with tiredness, worn raw with worry for Sam and confusion over the angels’ fall and still so, so beautiful to Castiel’s newly-human ears. 

He had forgotten — foolishly, perhaps — just how _big_ human emotion could be. The relief of it: Dean’s voice quenching a different sort of thirst entirely. 

Castiel tugs the worn cotton of the hoodie up around his ears, then tucks his hands deep into the recesses of its pockets. He puts the bright white lights spilling from the laundromat’s wide windows to his back, and begins the long trek home. 

\--- 

The bunker’s laundry machines, in a word, suck ass.

 _That’s two words,_ whispers a thought. It sounds suspiciously like Sam.

Castiel closes his eyes and draws a deep, fortifying breath. His fists unclench by increments as his irritation settles, draining the low, buzzing pressure of Grace along with it. While Castiel is beginning to doubt blowing out the damned thing could possibly reduce its efficiency any further, he likewise doubts the Winchesters would appreciate him testing the theory.

The laundry room is set in the deep, rather less-traveled area of the bunker, hidden like a secret between one of the dusty storage rooms and the stairs up to the garage. There are two washers, two dryers, a folding ironing board tucked in next to a tall wire supply rack and not near enough space to contain it all. Though Castiel suspects the machines once represented the height of modern technology for the original Men of Letters, they’re now painfully outdated. 

Castiel pokes again at the damp mass of clothes within the belly of the washer, into a flannel overshirt he believes is one of Mary’s. A scowl mars his features at the squelch as bubbles froth up around his fingers.

“Shoulda used less soap,” says a voice at his ear, unexpected and low. 

Castiel startles, turning to the presence at his side and Dean breaks out a grin, wholly unrepentant. Castiel internally curses the clamor of the running dryers for masking the hunter’s approach, though even that is no excuse for allowing himself to be snuck up on. Dean will tease for days.

His frown returns with a vengeance. “I used exactly the recommended amount.”

“Yeah, and you _shoulda_ used less.” Dean’s smile only widens, and he nudges Castiel somewhat to the side, hip-to-hip as Dean reaches to close the front-facing window of the washer. “Aw, don’t look at me like that,” he says, depressing a number of unlabelled buttons on the machine’s frankly nonsensical controls. “It just needs another rinse.”

Castiel sighs down at the rather substantial pile of clothes left on the floor, yet to be cleaned. The washers only handle small loads, and the cycles run frustratingly long. Add in the fact that most will need to be hung up to dry — no matter the setting, the dryers always leave fabrics smelling slightly scorched – and laundry had quickly become the bunker's most hated chore.

“Leave ‘em,” Dean says dismissively. “What’re you doin’ down here, anyways? Pretty sure it’s Sam’s week.”

Castiel fixes Dean a pointed look. “Your sheets were disgusting.”

A flash of mischievous, mirthful green, and in a moment Castiel’s space is thoroughly invaded, 6’2’’ of clingy hunter draped heavily across his shoulders. Dean crowds in closer still, until Castiel feels the nuzzling, prickly press of jaw and smiling lips tucked to sensitive skin at the side of his neck. “That’s _our_ sheets now, buddy.” A statement punctuated by a playful bite, and Castiel twitches at the ticklish throb. “Mojo quick-clean not good enough for you?”

Castiel turns, drops a kiss to the trailing arch of Dean’s raised brow. “It’s not the same.”

Dean draws slightly away, and Castiel’s heart soars to see the unfettered affection in his gaze, requited and free to be seen after far too many years of repression and needless self-denial. “Nah, it’s not,” he says. Then, “C’mon, Sam’s tryin’ to get out of teaching Mom and Jack how to play Cards Against Humanity, it’s freakin’ hilarious.”

Castiel spares a thought to mourn a job left undone, but allows Dean to take his hand and drag him from the laundry room regardless. He is, as always, forever willing to follow where this man may lead.

It won’t all be this easy, he knows. Not every problem miraculously resolved. 

But it’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://remmyme.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
